Wisodm's Teeth
by FlamingStan
Summary: With action, adventure and generally mysterious shenanigans, this is a story all about a boy who lives in a pub, at least to begin with. Review me if the mood takes you and I'll write a terrible poem in your honour! :D
1. Chapter 1

Formed approximately 4.65 billion years ago, the tiny planet of Earth is a vast chunk of utterly unremarkable rock merrily drifting along in the dark sea of infinity that is our universe. At least that's what most people think, and to be fair, they're right for the most part. Aside from sending out the occasional deep-space signal, (marked as spam and quickly atomised by most galactic mail-servers), it keeps itself to itself, quite content to just sit there on its arse. The world of magic, some may say, is quite similar.

In a town, perched on an obscure little island in the North Sea, just down Rutt street behind the new cinema is a bedraggled pub. Murky paint flaking, its windows stained yellow with cigarette smoke, the ramshackle building juts out on to the pavement like an angular tumour. They say John Lennon spat on it once whilst doing a gig nearby.

Hull is rainy. It always has been, and Tuesday is no exception. Once, further back than most can be bothered to remember an entirely fake documentary had been released offshores describing the town as a "Paradise!", calling it "a little slice of old-fashioned English heritage". Somebody believed it. Steve Hackenbacker believed it, and what's more, it would be no matter the cost. He is currently jammed into a barstool in the dingy, dirty, Dog and Trout.

He asks the idiotic barkeep, (in his well rehearsed accent of course), for a screwdriver, on the rocks, for the third time.

The unfortunate lad behind the counter once again asks the large man to give him a few more minutes. He is almost sure from his bizarre accent that he must be Dutch, and frankly, his is a little rusty. He is absolutely sure "Droiver" means some kind of road salt, but that doesn't really help matters.

The Dog and Trout has never been the most highly regarded of establishments, but since the new cinema, things have taken a decided turn for the worse. A favourite amongst the locals is the new pungent carpet of soft, mulching popcorn, a springy substance particularly easy on the collapsing frames of passed-out punters.

The barkeep is probably worth a mention at this point, he is after all, one of the central characters in this story. His name is Stanley, and he still can't remember what a "Screuyw Droiver" is.

Steve Hackenbacker notices this. Really, how hard could it be for this Brit kid to throw some vodka at a glass of orange juice? Weren't they all from Oxford or something?

Stanley gives up at this point and eventually asks him what on earth he means.

"Wat een je de betekenis meneer sir?"

As you may have noticed, the issue here is that he does so in a broken Dutch. Steve Hackenbacker is not the kind of man to get angry, but unfortunately, neither is he the kind of man who goes to Holland for brunch.

"Vodka boy! That meener enough for you?"

Surprised though reassured, Stanley knows exactly what to do, or so he supposes. Filling a small glass half with vodka, he dumps a tablespoon of salt in and gives it a stir.

A few moments later, Steve Hackenbacker leaves the Dog and Trout.  
Maybe he'll try the Cinema - at least they know what a hot dog looks like.

Having gathered the shards of salty glass from the yellowing carpet, Stanley straightens up.

"Ouch", he thinks, as he removes a stray fragment from his left hand.  
His boss, a Mr. Gregory Untik comes downstairs to see what's going on.

Gregory Untik lives with his mother in a flat above the pub, and suffers from the condition 'wondering bladder'. He has two cats, and is the owner of the Dog and Trout.  
He has recently employed Stanley Spencer out of sheer desperation - it is his sincere belief that he's getting too old to deal with his customers, and so has chosen what he calls a "more executive role". This consists almost entirely of drinking coffee in an upstairs bedroom (newly entitled "CORPORATE MANAGEMENT SUITE") and staring angrily at a laptop for several hours a day.

Stan Spencer has recently applied for the post because he needs somewhere to lay low for a while. He is 15, and needs work that comes with bed, board and as few questions asked as possible until school starts again.

Gregory Untik doesn't seem to like the police very much, and so the two have entered a mutually beneficial agreement.

He is after all, a wanted man, or so he might have phrased it. In reality, it has far more to do with a vaguely cataclysmic incident involving a structural support beam in the family home, and a slightly overpowered modification made to a vacuum cleaner.

His small wage from bartendering is almost completely spent on fulfilling his lifetime ambition, to invent something that is both interesting and useful. He often fulfils the first of these, but rarely the second, as his creations have a nasty tendency to catch fire, which while interesting, is certainly not very useful, and is in fact the main cause of his covert lifestyle. His fish toaster caught fire as soon as fish were inserted. This had only set light to a curtain or six, but the last straw had been his innovative "Crazy Sucka" hoover, which while successful in tests, had managed to blow a small hole in the back of the house when introduced to even the slightest notion of carpet dust. Honestly, people get far too wound up over critical structural damage these days.  
As you may have gathered, his ideas - although brilliant in his eyes, never really come out quite how he imagines them.

The latest amongst them is not particularly different, though it did not, (so far at least) catch fire, pull itself apart, or kill any household pets. A work in progress, the "Screamer" is a new form of hybrid rocket, that runs entirely on air.

There is one, glaring reason that many of his designs fail.

No electrical input.

Stanley Spencer's Grandfather, a Mr. Percy Spencer, was the inventor of the microwave oven, and a powerful wizard. It was only by charming the contraption, could he get it to hold together long enough to cook anything bigger than a stuffed grape. This is where Stan inherits both his love of inventing, and his magical abilities. For five years, he has attended Hogwarts school of witchcraft and wizardry, and owing to spending most of his time there, his devices cannot use electricity. This means he is fighting a constant battle to power his creations without power.  
As you can imagine, this leads to difficulties, for example; Napalm, while very hot, makes an exceedingly poor substitute for toaster filament.

A herd of drunks wander in and start making a row at the back of the pub.  
Mr. Untik visibly cowers behind the bar and slinks off back upstairs.

In two days time, Stan will be going back for his fifth year at the magical school. His younger sister, Betty, is just starting her second, and is currently listening to "Take That", much to the annoyance of her father. It will be the first time in nearly a month that he has seen her, although he strongly suspects she'll be avoiding him since the whole gas-powered hair straightener debacle. Despite his Ravenclaw badge, he has never been particularly brilliant in lessons, but proudly keeps at least forty percent of his dorm completely full of scrap metal, finding it an excellent, not to mention entirely undetectable place to practice his hobby. He loves the input of his friends too.

He's looking forward to seeing them again. All but one of the members of their elite club is in some way "parentally challenged", and now it seemed they would be a full set. By 'Elite Club' of course, he means a modestly dysfunctional gathering of four people who happened to occupy the (now fifth year) Ravenclaw boy's dormitory.

He had thought a few of the others in his gifted house were occasionally good if he needed a hand with matter/energy conversions, but had learned the hard way to rely upon his own results for that sort of thing. Some of them, it turned out look down on him for being a bit daft, and will occasionally take advantage of this, nearly always resulting in explosions of varying size and colour.

Untik stumps down the stairs again and reaches for the bronze bell hanging above the counter.

"LAST ORDERS YOU SMELLY BUGGERS!", he yells.

Said smelly buggers wander up to the bar and order beer, which Stanley serves to them. He likes beer, beer is easy to find and hard to spill, ideal for the inexperienced barkeep.

A few minutes later, Gregory Untik decides to call it a night and get shot of the stragglers. His doctor told him to avoid stressful situations anyway, and it seems as good an excuse as any. He always knew he should have been a vet or a plumber like his mother wanted.  
Pulling himself up to his full four foot six, he shouts a few choice words at the scattered patrons. They completely ignore him.

A look of anger flashes across his red, sweating face.

"Poor old drunks" thinks Stan. He knows what this usually means, and frankly, it's not at all pretty.

Untik shouts something up the stairs behind the bar, and a rumbling like a small avalanche rings down from the upper levels. Beermats shake across shabby tables, and just seconds later, Gregory Untik's mother, a fearsome juggernaut of a woman hurtles down the dangerously quivering stairs, brandishing a hatchet and screaming like a banshee, chasing everybody on the wrong side of the bar out on to the gloomy streets.

She sighs contentedly and slams the door.

She loves Tuesday night.  
Turning to face her son, she says in an altogether more calm tone;

"Don't worry love, your tea's in the oven. Close up for tonight and I'll put the cats to bed."

Untik nods contentedly, looking forward to his fish fingers. Life may not be perfect, but it has its moments.

It has been a long day, and a longer night. By the time Stan gets back up to his room, it is almost one 'o clock in the morning, the last of the street lights outside his window flicker in limbo, before eventually letting the dark envelope the alleyway for good.

The latest Screamer prototype rests on the floor next to his bed, surrounded by discarded bits of metal and wire. It takes up most of the space in his tiny room, but he is immensely proud of it. It works surprisingly well right up until that bit where the back falls off.

He is far too tired to do anything else but to throw himself onto the musty mattress. He does just that, and tries to get to sleep.

As he dozes on the coffee coloured 70's sheets, he looks forward to the week ahead. He wants especially to see Hermione Granger again, she seems to be the only person who can make sense of his bizarre contraptions, and he needs some advice on the whole matter-conversion element.

Honestly, just because splitting atoms is difficult, doesn't mean it's impossible. 


	2. Chapter 2

_Next up: First person! _

What? Yes! Right then, alarm clock! Turn that off and get up, not too hard. Dragging myself out of bed's an interesting thing, especially when there's half a dozen broken transistor valves on the floor directly where I've just planted my left foot. Ah.

Bugger.

Right, to the bathroom, bandages on foot, then have shower. Bandages now soggy, re-think and apply again after drying foot, (though towel now covered in blood). Have to get that washed, Mrs. Untik'll just worry otherwise. Kitchen sink? Nah, still full of beetroot if memory serves, wouldn't help matters. Hmm. Laundrette then! A fine plan.

Have breakfast, kippers on toast, extremely tasty. Mrs. Untik very good cook indeed. Ask Greg if anything good in paper. Man somehow rode jet-ski into garden centre, impressive. Possible to build land-ski? No, already been done, although maybe adapt to work on something other than snow. Hm.

Grab coat, apply boots and to laundrette we go - out the back door. Can't help but feel watched, though am almost certain parents think I'm staying with estranged aunt or other. Almost the defining word of course, must be careful, stick to back streets, avoid main roads, possible (though unlikely) they actually went to the police this time, depends on how much detail the insurance company wants. Only a small explosion, virtually contained anyway. Had to be a supporting beam, why on earth not a... maybe, superficial beam? An unimportant one! Sun beam, or laser beam. Runner beam? Shut up.

Just because you're lost.

Yes well, maybe.

North. Head north. Compass in other coat. Don't have another coat. Hm. Have to work that out later, DO have a pin, which could probably work. Dive into souvenir shop. Horrible porcelain frog leers at me from plastic box. Creepy. Move on and find target - fridge magnet (avoid frog ones) and buy, fifty pee and an I LUV HULL fridge magnet from my £1 coin. Discard gaudy plastic disk to reveal magnet. Rub along pin. Now, into newsagents, buy bottle of Vimto, but a penny change from second pound coin. Drink Vimto. Yum. Belch. Cut in half bottle with penknife, discard top bit, stick magnetized pin through cork, float in remaining Vimto and NORTH. Compasses simple when you know how. Or have played Monkey Island 3. Either work.

North north north, and now back on course. Past man with big hat and into laundrette. Smells like death, but keep calm and carry on. Reach machine and stuff in bloody towel. Stuff shoes in too to see whether it'll sound like someone kicking the crap out of a washing machine or not. Hope so. Close door. Add same powder uses to complete illusion. Machine needs feeding worst luck, but have spent most of two quid in pocket building a compass which I may or may not have drunk the remainder of since then.

Bugger.

Shout at machine. Call it's mother a whore. Kick machine. Ouch. No shoes, of course, but machine lurches into life all the same. Try to look normal, like I'd put the money in somehow. Think it works. Sit down and listen to the sound of shoes kicking inside of washing machine. Great fun! Red laces come lose from shoes and zoom around in glass window like snakes. Best thing all day - watch for half an hour.

Machine doesn't seem to want to stop, possibly result of earlier kick.

Towel very washed by now, and shoes apparantly starting to fall apart, leather coming unstitched so looks like big mouth where it's come away around the sole. Buggeration.

Kick machine again, but to no avail. Still bloody hurts. Swear at machine again. Think for a second. If pull plug, machine locked forever and shoes et towel lost to the ages. If lock were to catastrophically fail... Hm. Withdraw pin and stab into latch. No effect. Stick magnet to handle. Same result. Suddenly have great idea to pour vimto into electric bit at the back of machine, but have drunk it all, so instead take off sock and jam into air vent in side. It doesn't like this at all. Sit back down, grinding noise, smoke and bangs, machine fails. Troll-man gets up from behind counter and mopes over to machine.

He unplugs it and pulls open the door.

I'm screaming on the inside, but smile politely and thank him as I retrieve the remains of my shoes and the towel. Towel survives remarkably well, though shoes may need work. Attempt to wear shoes. Stumble out of shop, but troll-man in persuit, he's got my sock and is extremely cross! Run! Peg it like there's no tomorrow and hope I'm not leaving a trail of shoe-shrapnel - through alleyways and streets, cut through a park and under the railway, and I'm pretty sure I've lost him. Phew.

Trudge home. Mangled shoes not helping injured foot much, but at least towel clean, shouldn't notice the difference. Time for lunch, and home. Maybe time for a sandwich. Wonder if Betty's okay? Hope so, the parents should treat her alright, they usually do. Actually thinking about it, she's probably the safest she's been in a while - yes quite, no thanks to you doofus.

It should have worked! It really should have done, there was no reason for that. Maybe there was higher pressure wrong somewhere, or.. hang on that makes no sense. Don't get lost. Sort of recognise this street... Hm.

Home! And with minutes to spare, dash upstairs and replace towel while busies self in beer cellar. Is it called a beer cellar? Yeah, why not. Have sandwich. Jam and marmite very good.

comes up from the un-nameable cellar. (Fairly sure I've made that one up. Never mind.) She's clearly smuggling something in a bag, but no idea what – unusual, she's pretty much head of the house. Must be for the Cat's birthday or something. Probably find out sooner or later.

I think I'll miss our makeshift family. , though fearsome at least has a sense of humour, and she's one of those rare people who always seems to know exactly what's going on in the world at any given time, though I've seen her so much as glance at the paper. Her over real Mumsie any day, mad old bat. Spends most of her time at Betty's PTA meetings waging all-out thermonuclear war with the other vultures for control of this week's bake sale, or charity ego-trip, or whatever. Anyway, far too depressing! Back to the present, this afternoon's job is, according to Greg at least, cleaning the mulched up cack out of the drains on the roof.

This could be interesting, primarily because I really hate heights, and said gutter is about thirty feet from street level. Hm.

Open bedroom window and crawl out onto roof. Don't look down. Back down to level of drain and slip on flagstones, tumble down, catch chimney.

Scurry back up. Sod this for a lark.

Sit and think instead. What's really needed is something to encourage mulch down gutter. Perhaps push down with stick? Nah, might break off and stick up over roof like some kind of Peter-Pan TV antenna. Alright then... Ah, hang on, how about.. No. No no no no no. Not doing that. Would work though... and avoid the street...

Too dangerous.

What the hell, worth a second try.

Pull remains of "Crazy Sucka" from under bed and begin repairs. Try to think of less offensive name.

Hours pass. Find problem, wasp got jammed in flow regulator causing catastrophic failure of compression system. Put bit of mesh over intake and clean out wasp entrails. Still some paraffin left as well.

Clamber out of window with length of pipe. Check for wasps. Pray. Make way down to gutter again and chuck hose at downpipe. Make it back alive.

Kick-start hoover.

Mighty roar!

Lasts three seconds. Hm. Perhaps more parrafin needed after all. Chance a look outside and hope not to see rift in time and space where pipes once were.

Blimey. Actually worked pretty well by the looks of it. Chuck ping pong ball down drain and pelt downstairs. See it bouncing across road. Hurrah!

Has gone all dark though. Hm. Bed then by the look of things, seem to have missed tea, bit of an arse.

Settle down in crap old bed. Wonder how Jellyfish work?

Alarm! Ring a ding ding. Uuurgh.

Out of bed again, time to be up and about. Bogwarts tomorrow, have to get all packed, no mean feat when carrying almost 700lbs of scrap metal in a box no bigger than a haybale. Blimey, you can tell I'm from around here. Can only charm the damned thing when we get there as well, so it's either manual lifting, or maybe something else... Well, that might be a bit of a no-brainer.

Rig small casters to base of trunk. Feels flimsy. Try instead baggage trolley roller thing at each end. Probably work, but bottom of trunk may not hold due to leaky potions kit. How did I get this all here again? Reinforce bottom with sheet steel. Probably make an excellent car with minor modifications, but for now, will have to do. Let the elves deal with it when it gets there poor buggers.

Load trunk.

Ah, right, breakfast! Forgot all about that, smells like bacon from downstairs. Wonderful food, and apparently quite good for you too. Plummet downstairs and take up residence at table. Brekfo. Hurrah.

Ah, the bak-2-skule shop. Breathe in that panicked odour of despair and fear! While most kiddies get to brave an afternoon eyeing up the pick 'n' mix in woolies, It's a morning in Londinium for me. Hurrah. Like London. Big. Easy to disappear if you need to, and today, I will be.

Go to Hull Station. Lose will to live. Board Train.

Wait four hours and try not to stare at weird fat bloke gradually absorbing his headphones. Have to look out the window or something instead. Pregnant woman sits down next to me. Have to avoid doing the jumping up thing you can do on couches. Get off train at King's Cross, feel a bit better and head to Diagon Alley. Tap bricks with wand and bound onto street! Love this place, the smells alone are incredible, especially to somebody who's just spent four hours on an outbound train from Hull. Everything very colourful compared to muggle London. Buy exceedingly good leg of lamb from man with a cart on side of road. Lamb very good. Least I think it's lamb.

Chew probably lamb and wander around getting books. I always leave it 'till the last day, avoids the firsties, but also means I get the brilliant held-back-until-the-last-possible-minute stock – I've still got my ridiculous purple furry monster book of monsters somewhere, and my low-flying broom's perfect, goes like the clappers at an altitude of ten feet and nothing above! Bloke virtually paid me to take it off him. Good day that. Pondering whether or not to splash out on new shoes or just some good glue when a small hand jabs me in the left kidney. Ouch.

I flail around a bit and end up on my arse. This seems strangely like the work of the nefarious... Ah yes, Luna Lovegood I presume. Cackling her face off as ever.

"Git!"I exclaim. Pick self up. Probably lamb survived intact, so she lives for today.

Luna manages garbled speech in between cackling -

"H- Hello Stanley!"

I reply. "'Lo Luna"

Always nice to see friends after all.

She calms down a bit.

"Would you like to come owl shopping?"

Owl shopping? Didn't know they could...

"You know, shopping – for an owl and such!"

Ah, yes. This makes much more sense. I agree and we trek off to this supposed shop in which to buy owls.

"Do you need an owl too Stanley?" she asks,

"Nah", I reply, "We all use Sid's battered old thing, Armoured Patrol Car."

Luna, as usual, seems completely unaffected by this and nods sagely.

"That's a nice name."

See, as if it were something even vaguely normal. Bloody Sid Vanian.

We arrive at Ottewell Owls. Strange place, not been here before, which is unusual, thought I knew most parts of Diagon Alley... Hm. Probably lamb now finished, so throw probably lamb bone into large cage. Particularly menacing owl glares at me like I've spilt it's pint. Follow Luna indoors.

Hate that smell.

"Hello there" says she, to a strange old wizard slumped over a counter.

He either has terrible coordination and a love of Greek yoghurt, or there's something entirely more horrible going on with his extensive beard...

Wonder if anyone's invented beard cleaning fluid yet?

He pulls his head up from the surface, clearly with some effort. Hung over? Probably, though lack of sleep due to shop full of billion owls also quite likely.

"Mhurngh?" He replies. This seems like a bad idea, but Luna generally knows what she's doing.

Wait, what am I saying!

Oh bugger, she's replied -

"I need an owl please, you know, to send letters to Daddy"

"Ungh" says man, and waves his arm at the piles of homicidal birds.

"Thank you very much, we'll be back shortly"

Hm. Not entirely sure how we aren't stabbed yet, still, let the owl shopping begin. Luna seems quite excited, which I suppose is good – very little trouble can be caused in an owl shop. Ah, good, that one looks harmless... No? Yeah, that one with the talons that looks like a serial killer, that seems good too...

Many hours pass. Luna has deep conversations with each owl in the shop, and I realise it may be getting dark again. Could really go for some more probably lamb about now.

"He's the one!" Sweet mercy, she's chosen one!

"Isn't he lovely Stanley? I think I'll call him Oscar. He has a very Oscar face.

Now, as great as I think Luna is, this simply isn't true. This owl, (if you can call it that) looks as though it'd tear your face off for breakfast. I have no idea how Luna thinks she's going to move that cage either, looks like fort Knox...

"Stanley?" She asks, and – ah. Well now, I know exactly where this is going.

"Could you help me carry Oscar back to the train?"

Yeah, there it is.

"Yeah sure" I agree, internally kick myself and savour last few minutes of health.

"Uurfgh!" cries man. Now seemingly agitated, he jabs a finger at the massive grey shape. "You bought that, Cage's mine".

"Alright" replies Luna, and calmly opens cage.

Dive for door, run, cage erupts in mass of feathers and squawking, then all quiet. Open eyes a crack and look up from the pavement. Out strolls miss Luna, a massive pile of fluff and eyes and beak and claws sat happily on her shoulder. It lurches gracelessly into the sky, and is gone.

Luna waves and blows a kiss.

Remember why I avoid people, bloody nutters.

We part ways, though not for long, I know I'll see her on the train tomorrow. School soon. Looking forward to that, finally have a good hunt for that jumper I lost last year...

Suddenly, as if by magic, Sid Vanian appeared.


	3. Chapter 3

_Here we go then – this is my first ever attempt at writing an actiony bit. As ever, all feedback massively appreciated and will be rewarded (though I use the term as loosely as possible) with some terrible poetry in your honour! :D_

The cloaked figure of a small man cowered behind the boulders that littered Crackington Haven. Sea spray dripped down his forehead, or so he kept telling himself. It trickled down his back as he felt his body shudder. A shape moved in the corner of his eye, and he pressed himself closer to the stone. The crow took off again and his body shuddered. He knew that tonight, any display of fear could lead to a decidedly premature death. Checking his watch for the last time, he raised his wand in the air.

A column of green sparks illuminated the jagged rock of the cove as the sound of several loud cracks accompanied that of the churning waves. This was huge, he reminded himself, an order directly from the dark lord himself. Tonight could not fail. He fell in step with his colleagues, pulling down his bone-white mask as the mass of dark shapes advanced upon the cliff-edge.

Mulciber led.

Drawing his wand, the vast man knelt, tapping the ground five times. There was a short pause, as some of the younger present held a breath. With the mighty roar of tearing earth, the silhouette of castle Vanian rose into existence in the moonlight before grinding to a halt. Ravenwood shuddered before regaining his composure. At their leader's command, they advanced on the dark mass of turrets and battlements that had risen seamlessly from the rocky outcrop. The fortress was ominously dark. More cracks behind them, as a second wave advanced.

Marley was the first to reach the top of the great black marble walls. Heaving himself over the edge, he revelled in the ecstasy of a job well done – lights sprang on in a nearby tower. The young man blanched, freezing where he was. Every stone in the castle let out a blood-curdling scream. Lights flickered on all over the battlements as the fortress woke up. The walls glowed a pale red, a roar and every death eater and underling was blasted from the building to the treacherous rocks below, screaming. The assault had begun.

Sidney Igor Van-Strauss Vanian the fourth sat bolt upright. The gothic architecture that he called home shook, the curtains hanging from his mahogany four poster following suit. He grabbed for his wand. Diving over the chest at the foot of his bed, he stabbed it into a concealed hole in the dark wooden panels coating the room – the castle roared again. The two suits of blood red armour by the door shuddered into life as the primary defences of Castă Vanian, the ancient family stronghold erupted into being. Sid sprinted out on to the gnarled battlements as the gargoyles that adorned them took off into the night sky, gliding noislessly towards the advancing army. He peered over the battlements and flinched. A sea of black marched diligently towards the fortress, green jets of light bursting from it, flaying chunks of rock from the ancient barricades. Immediately a flock of gargoyles exploded just in front of the boy, as he climbed a curling staircase that hugged the upper-most tower. Narrowly avoiding a particularly vicious looking purple beam of energy, he dived into the room as another outcrop was blasted from its foundation.

His mother stood at the narrow stone window overlooking the battle as the rumble of explosions rattled the silverware adorning the mantelpiece. Hands behind her back, a small smile curled up her lip as she spoke to her only son.

"Sidney dear, in the face of horrifically poor odds, it seems the time has come to leave."

The boy seemed flabbergasted. "Mu- Mother, they'll get the castle!".

Her smile widened.

"On the contrary dear."

She twisted her wand and removed it from the ornate wooden panel. A low, threatening whine rose from the depths of the masonry. "Now come, take my hand."

"Yes Mother."

He obediently took her pale, slender digits in his own. The black, onyx ring glowed hotly for a few short moments before it sucked them into the void.

Mulciber burst into the room. They should have been here. Glancing over at the window, he noticed a small square of parchment. He held it up before the glass, his 400-strong force rapidly overpowering the ancient safegaurds in the background.

There was a single word in flowing, regal script. "Goodbye" he read, and with that, Castă Vanian imploded into nothingness.

Delphina Vanian fell to her knees suddenly. She had sometimes wondered weather she would feel it. Needles to say, she had. Recovering herself from the sodden mud-track, she pushed a stray lock of deep black hair behind her ear and carried on, ignoring her son's questioning look.

"Where are we going?" he asked.

"The order," she replied shortly, "you need to be kept safe until this is all over." - which, she noted, ought to be quite soon if all went to plan. The recent development was unexpected, but could be easily dealt with. She only hoped the Potter boy would be prepared. They reached an enormous stone gate, topped by two winged boars. It swung slowly open, revealing an ancient man in a vivid purple dressing gown. Small rocket ships seemed to skate across the cloth in formation as they were ushered inside.

"How many?" he asked from behind his sprawling desk.

"The castle recorded almost four hundred," she replied, "at least half as many were impaled on the grounds."

Ah yes, thought Sid, his mother often referred to the sixteen-foot columns of razor-tipped rock that surrounded his home in that particular fashion. Ex-home, he reminded himself. In retrospect, he would miss living in a seaside fortress. Not nearly as many ice-creams here in Scotland.

Dumbledore and his mother continued. "Then it sounds as though we must drastically accelerate the plans. By our count that would leave barely fifty death eaters. Do you have the final article?"

Delphina daintily lifted the ornate silver tiara from her head and handed it to the old man. He smiled solemnly at her. Still in her evening gown, she led her son from the circular office and down the staircase. Harry Potter sprinted up the descending staircase as they were carried past back out past the stone gargoyle.

"soon Sidney," she said, "it will all be over. For now, rest dear, we won't know who is left standing until morning." He obeyed, catching his mother in a brief embrace before leaving for his familiar dorm.

She waited until he was out of sight. He was safe.

Now the work began.

Delphina cast off her evening gown, and drawing her wand, prepared herself for the battle that was to come. Her stern, aristocratic features broke into a grin as she transfigured her her heels into rugged boots and careened down the main staircase to the entrance hall.

Sidney sat cross legged on his bed and pondered for a few minutes. It always worried him when his mother was away on business. He had been raised entirely by her since before he could remember, his father, the count of the castle had been killed in the increasingly desperate closing weeks of the first war when he was barely a year old. Life from that point on had been 'sheltered' to say the least.

He sighed, the stress mounting. He couldn't entirely abandon the false persona he adopted around Mumsie quite yet, at least not until term began and she was back at the estate. Ah, right, no estate, he reminded himself. Might be an interesting year. Had to keep calm, though he hated it more than he might have said. He longed to cause a little havoc... It hit him suddenly – it was time to go out! Perfect, perhaps Hogsmead. No – too close. Not to mention dark, yes of course, it was three o' clock in the morning. With that settled, he leant back on the sheets, slipped his wand under his pillow, and fell asleep.

A large, brown barn owl soared through the sky. Honestly, it had no idea what everybody was so happy about, but it certainly DID know that it's workload had trebled overnight. Fourth run of the day and it was barely even lunch time. Bloody Wizards. It swooped down through the open window of Hogwarts most westerly tower and deposited it's Daily Prophet (with some force) on the head of a sleeping boy.

"BASTARD!" he shouted, and jumped up, turning the owl into a bowl of coleslaw with a flick of his wand. It landed with a clunk, and Sid rubbed his eyes wondering what had just happened. He groggily picked up the prophet, only to be greeted with a massive grinning face. He grinned back thinking how nice it was to start the morning like this. Maybe the prophet actually got that last letter he had written...

A name in the text caught his eye. Sid did a double take. He was dead. Not Sid of course, but him, the big bugger everyone was out to kill, they'd actually got him! Suddenly the massive, grinning Harry Potter made some sense. He winked up at Sid from the pages, as the Ravenclaw scrambled for the next page.

_"Wizards, Witches, raise your heads,"_ it read_,"rejoice today, for the dark lord is dead. In the early hours of this morning, Thursday the fifteenth of August 1996, a force of several hundred ministry aurors, personnel and civilian volunteers stormed the location of the severely reduced army of lord Voldermort. The assault was conceived and planned by Albus Dumbledore along side top ministry officials following the defeat of almost eighty percent of known Death-Eaters in the siege of Castle Vanian on the south-west coast just hours before. (full report, page 7) The battle, which took place in the Queensway industrial estate near Scunthorpe lasted for just over half an hour, as ministry combatants crushed Voldermort's remaining supporters in a swift multi-directional assault. Alastor Moody, leader of the second of the three strike teams described the action to Dialy Prophet reporters on scene following the action - "Three groups of two hundred – Three directions. Shacklebolt's men from the north, Scrigmour's from the South, and us from the east. Forced them __right into the already fortified industrial units the muggles built – great steel sheds a hundred yards long, and Dumbledore did a damn good job with those. They didn't stand a chance." Reporters also later heard from Hogwarts prefect Frank Cellery on the destruction of the Dark Lord, which he personally witnessed - "It was him and like, Potter and Weasley on one of the roofs, and we saw this huge flash – I was with Alissa trying to help out below and we saw everyone fall back, the metal flew everywhere from the shed things, and when we got back up, the roof and shed had collapsed, and there was just Harry trying to help Ron up and this sort of scorched circle of red where you-know-who was, like he'd just exploded or something. That was when people started cheering, and we knew we'd won". _

Sid scanned through the rest of the article, finding everything afterwards all too patriotic. Still – it was over! Well Hurrah, thought Sid. At least now his Mum wouldn't be running off to blow up Death Eaters at random hours of the morning. He put down the paper and contemplated the bowl of coleslaw. He threw it out of the window, where it fell into the lake with a plop. Before turning back into a particularly soggy, irate owl. Sid grinned and set off in search of bacon, ignoring the angry hoots from below. Today was going to be a good day.

Donning his most sensible clothes, he set out in search of his mother. Had he glanced at the paper, its pages sprawled on the floor nearby, he may have found her rather more quickly...

_I've got a horrible feeling this chapter isn't quite 'right', but no idea how as of yet – still, I'm here for feedback, so if you can work out what it is, feed me.. back? Hm. :D_


	4. Chapter 4

_A word of warning, this is a short, short chapter, bit of a bridger, (and I know that isn't a real word) but the next one's not only full length, but ready and waiting for uploading the second this gets validated! :D_

A low fire crackled in the hearth. Small silver fish swam around in a jam jar on the mantelpiece as an ancient, battered old hat snored from a shelf above. The dim light of the flames stumbled drunkenly across a vast, white beard. Just as he was about to open a bag of Jelly Tots, Albus Dumbledore heard a knock at his office door. It swung gently open.

He set the inviting yellow packet down on his things to do pile. "Ah, Filius, do come in."

The diminutive man stepped lightly into the dim room.

"Headmaster, I take it you've been made aware of the – ah – arrangements for Delphina's boy?"

"I have indeed. How is he?"

"Not well I'm afraid Albus, taken it as hard as you might expect poor boy. Only family he had left."

Professor Flitwick took a seat with his boss at the ornate desk. The headmaster's bright blue eyes had fallen. He could always sympathise with situations like these.

"Where is he now?", he asked.

"Back in the dormitory I should imagine. Perhaps leaving him alone may be – ah – the best bet, as they say, for the time being. Poor Delphina. I suppose she always knew this was a possibility, at least she was well prepared in the end."

"Yes, quite – Have you read the will?" asked Dumbledore, smiling a little, much to the smaller wizard's dismay, "An absolute delight, quirky as the bizarre essays she used to write me when she was here years ago. I remember once I asked for an analysis of insect transfiguration, and a week later she handed in four feet of parchment on the subject of that odd flobberworm mutation that destroyed most of Hyde park in the twenties!"

"Headmaster, really!", a spark of indignation in the younger man's voice, "do at least try to show a little respect!"

"I was of the utmost solemnity when we discussed her wishes Filius, I assure you. Though her requests were fittingly baffling."

"How so?" asked Flitwick, now curious in spite of himself.

"Well," went on Dumbledore, once again suppressing a smile, "suffice to say, she left him the accumulated fortune of a four thousand year old wizarding family, with the explicit instruction to spend it on the most ridiculous things possible." He drew out a bottle and two glasses from under the desk, "Simply wonderful woman, always was. Scotch professor?"

"Yes, much appreciated, thank you." He took the vessel, considering its murky contents for a few seconds. "To Delphy, the finest of Romania!"

The glasses clinked.

Almost half a mile of twisting corridors away, Sidney lay curled up on his feather-filled bed in the Ravenclaw tower. He had decided he felt a bit numb that evening. He now had nobody. No-one left in the world, and that was not for one second a good thing. He clutched his mother's last letter to his chest in his sweaty palms. Nothing was fair, everything was terrible, and he had nothing.

A dull thud came from outside the tall window.

Actually, come to think of it, that wasn't quite true.

Any other owl and he would have thrown a lamp and some choice words at it, but there was only one owl on the planet that headbutted a window when it wanted to get out of the rain.

He leapt up to the window and threw it open, scooping up his one legged pet into a massive hug in the process.

"APC! Bad, horrible news!" He cried, the owl struggling in his arms as he pirouetted around the clothes-strewn floor. Honestly, all it wanted was to sit down for a bit, not be waltzed around some sweaty sock-filled lair! Still, as he set the bird gently on his pillow, it calmed down a little. He went to address it again.

"APC, my faithful old long suffering owl," He paused for a few seconds. "Mum's not going to be around any more."

His voice was unusually soft. The owl cocked its head.

"She got into a fight – with an absolute bastard, properly nasty bloke", he paused to catch his breath, "and they got her – they got Mum."

Whether Armoured Patrol Car the owl understood or not, Sid wasn't sure, but he didn't seem particularly surprised. Instead, he hooted softly, made several strange gurgling noises, and spat out a small package onto the bedspread.

Sid gingerly picked it up and wiped off the owl-drool on his dressing gown. It was a small lump of something, wrapped up in brown paper and written on it were his mother's familiar initials in that long, flowing script, DV. He carefully undid the binding.

A heavy gilded onyx ring fell out onto the royal blue sheets with a dull thunk.

He held it in his hand, trembling slightly. It still seemed warm. Without even thinking, he slipped it over his finger, and with the faintest of pops, was gone.

_Any and all reviews you lovely folk furnish me with will be 'rewarded' with terrible poems in your honour! :D_


	5. Chapter 5

To continue the experimental writing styles, I'm being all post-modern and that. As in this is the start of the chapter, not some OMG SRY 4 DLAYZ author's note. Drink in that textual self-awareness!

How nice is that.

Now you might remember from a chapter or so ago that Stan Spencer is standing in the middle of Diagon Alley sometime in the evening. Or at least he was. Sidney Vanian has just disappeared with a pop, and the two just can't happen at once. Sid's departure from Hogwarts may have been a quiet affair, but through the many layers of lead paint which coat most of the shops along Diagon Alley, his arrival there is more of a massive, cataclysmic bang.

As a result, Stan is thrown back on his arse for the second time that day, and is frankly getting a bit fed up with it. Anyway, Sid, as we say in England, is in a right old state, and after briefly regaling his woes to Stan, has to sit down for a minute. Being a barkeep, Stan naturally prescribes large quantities of alcohol. He is now sat with Sid at the bar of the Dog and Trout, at three o' clock in the morning, drinking sherry out of a mug. It even has a sheep on it. Sid is still quite upset about his recent loss, as might anyone be.

He is telling Stan, through a haze of alcohol, how brilliant his mother was, and how he has just declared today (yes, this very day) a national holiday in her honour, which quickly becomes a week of remembrance, followed by a month of national mourning. Unless he remembers why he's there in the first place, we could be here all night, though this is about as likely as Argus Filch wearing a top hat carved entirely out of Spam. It may be best if we leave them to it for now, after all, jokes about Goblin prostitutes can only truly be appreciated with at least half a bottle of sherry in oneself.

Instead then, let's have a little back story, that's always a laugh! And I'll even do a big flashback thing. Hold a few magnets up to your screen for the full effect.*

The time is ten past eleven, it is the year 1991, and the smell of burnt hair hangs in compartment seventy-three of the Hogwarts Express. All is most definitely not well. Stanley Spencer, or at least his ten-year-old self, is cowering on one of the dulled, suspiciously stained brown seats. A slightly older boy stands above him. He has rather greasy blonde hair, ferret-like features, and needs absolutely no further introduction. He has also just incinerated a two-square-inch portion of our hero's vaguely dishevelled hair with a well aimed blast from his wand. To put it bluntly, Stanley Spencer is scared out of his pants.

Handily, a little further down the same carriage, ten-year-old Sid has yet to find somewhere to sit, and being ten, is tiring of wandering up and down the train looking for somewhere not full of people who want to suck up to the Vanian heir. He doesn't much care for them, mainly because they talk about politics and haircuts far more than he imagines is healthy.

Suddenly, something happens!

He hears a particularly feminine scream from a short way away, and at least five thousands images enter his head at once. Feminine screams meant burning castles, Vikings, or a princesses in peril – That was it! - It would be exactly like the stories of his ancestors his Mum read him! A damsel in distress! And if the pictures in the books were to be believed, one with absolutely massive tits! He makes a beeline for the terrified shriek, and rounds the door to compartment seventy-three. He'd recognise that haircut a mile away! He was the son of that irritating bloke he'd heard his Mum call "a right knob-end" at their Halloween ball last year.

Well then, thought Sid, the element of surprise was to be used! He did so by using an ancient family battle tactic, honed through thousands of years of bloody conquest. He crouched behind the older boy, and summoning every ounce of strength in his body, shouted "BANG!" at the top of his voice. Four things happened. Malfoy stumbled and fell, Stan leapt out of the compartment over his collapsed form, and Sid slammed the door behind them. The fourth thing was Malfoy's leg going CRUNCH as it jammed in the previously slammed door.

The long and short of it is, through Sid's psychotic tendencies and Stan's compulsive cowardice, they've been firm friends ever since, and have now handily slept off the booze to the extent that they can take part in the story again. They are also now faced with the daunting task of commuting whilst hung-over.

The alarm clock rang. Stan groaned and Sid swore loudly.

"Next time we get drunk, can we not do it the day before we have to go to school?" Asked modern-day Stan, blearily trying to find a screwdriver to disable his seemed-like-a-good-idea-at-the-time internal combustion alarm clock.

Sid dragged himself up from where he'd slept on the floor. His back clicked a few more times than he might have liked, and they slowly made their way downstairs to breakfast. Bacon was enjoyed by all, though maybe not quite as much as usual, and after a few final goodbyes, ( made them promise to write to her before Christmas), they were gone.

Once again, Stan was on an outbound train from Hull, snaking its way to London as if trying to forget that it had to go back again the following afternoon. They were both slightly groggy. In what seemed like no time at all, (maybe due to the powernap en-route), Kings Cross was in sight. Their fatal mistake was to engage the yearly tradition of the charge through the barrier, at least as well as two heavily hung-over teenagers can make a charge at anything. The consequences were dire.

Earlier that morning, Elsie Barges, the stationmaster's daughter, had strung up just over half a mile of bunting and paper-chains around the station, so happy had she been that her favourite Uncle Moody was finally back from fighting the bad men. Incredibly loud and colourful, she was immensely proud of the decorations, and hummed happily to herself as she saw the delight of those first few people who stepped out onto the magical platform.

Sid on the other hand, was less than impressed, in fact to such an extent that he shouted "ARSING HELL, WHY?" the second he glanced at them. The violent world of colour he'd stepped into immediately trebled his headache, and he dashed blindly for the rails, not noticing the several first and second years he gave blunt force traumas to in doing so.

He clambered up onto the train and meandered down the shabby olive-green walkway. After only a few feet, he collided with something soft that smelled vaguely of dandelions and stumbled back, opening his eyes. There stood Luna Lovegood, wearing what could only be described a massive blue lampshade.

Sid blinked a few times. Luna grinned at him. She cocked her head and considered him for a few seconds. In a flash, she pointed her wand directly in his face and yelled "Methysmedenos!". Everything went black.

Sid couldn't feel his legs, wrists or left shoulder any more. He didn't really mind though, his frankly biblical headache was nowhere to be found. He was in an absolutely lovely place. Rolling green fields populated with massive dinosaurs, and he was riding one! He galloped around on his Brachiosaurus, singing as loudly as he could! Suddenly, a veloceraptor turned around, looked him right in the face, and said;

"Oh dear, is the freak having one of his 'episodes' again?"

Sid blinked. Draco Malfoy stood in front of him in the narrow passage, cold grey eyes locked in a sneer that, Sid decided, would have made even the mightiest of dinosaur feel bad about itself. What had happened to Luna? Much nicer sight. Dandelions.

"So you've decided to join us in reality, freak?"

Who was this? The boy was definitely familiar, but where on earth had they met before? Sid couldn't decide, so resorted to an intensive interrogation.

"You seem somewhat familiar; have I threatened you before?"

The sixth year visibly gritted his teeth.

"You and your wretched little family have been to every one of Mother's new year balls since the middle ages you treacherous little Mong." He smirked. "Still, I suppose we won't have to worry about her spoiling any more of our little get togethers, will we."

This irritated Sid. He remembered something, and calmed himself down a little. All Malfoys, his mother had told him, were at heart cowards, even if you couldn't remember their first names. A well placed put-down was usually the safest option.

He relaxed, breathed out, breathed in again, and replied.

"You know, I dare say you're right. Then again, I don't suppose there'll be any more of those horrific things for a while, what with all the Azkabaning your folks are indulging in. Lovely place I hear, you Dad'll _love_ the décor."

Ah, that seemed to work – nameless was definitely angry now. Perhaps rub it in a little...

"Guess we're just the same now eh Mally? Ah, but alas I forgot – I'm still fabulously wealthy, whereas you're getting dangerously close to having to pawn your own ridiculous haircut. Now piss off before I summon that 'private piercing' of yours again."

Malfoy stuttered, blanched, turned, and left. Sid grinned to himself. Silly sixth-year slitherer.

Now where the hell had everyone gone?

It took Sid a good hour of wandering around peering into compartments to find his friends, but we can skip that, as apart from a particularly catastrophic incident with the food-trolley, it was completely uneventful.

Picking the remains of a cauldron cake from behind his left ear, Sid took a seat with his fellow fifth years.

Stan greeted him from the end of the extremely tired-looking lilac bench opposite. "Where've you been mate?"

"Keeping the peasantry in line." Sid kicked his feet up on to the lap of the third inhabitant, much to his irritation. Actually, he's probably worth a mention too.

He's Ray Burns. You'll hear a bit more about him in a few seconds.

Ray looked down in dismay at the mixture fresh mud and trampled cinema popcorn now smeared on to his yellow jeans.

"Sidney my good man, you know this is blasphemy in clothing here right? Be as it may a fitting one for yourself, the distresses rural look doesn't do me any kind of justice!"

Sid smirked, "Raymundo, even Mally has more style than you, and the little sod hat looks like a depressed vicar." He put his feet back on the increasingly grubby carpet all the same.

Ray Burns was not the kind of man to take such a cutting remark lightly, but neither was he much good in a fight. As it was Sid, he decided to raise a much more important issue.

"Gentlemen," he proclaimed, "I've decided to raise a much more important issue!"

And he did.

The other two paid attention almost immediately. An important issue from prefect Ray, undisputed captain of the Ravenclaw quidditch force was never to be taken lightly.

"Cohorts, we have a serious problem with the team, and it has not gone unnoticed."

"Really?" asked Sid, "What is it? It was great fun last year, remember when we shot that octopus at Nott?"

"Yeah, I remember," pressed on Ray as Stan and Sid laughed, "we got very disqualified indeed though, no matter how excellent an idea it seemed at the time. No gents, this year, for the first time since 1967, we really do need to win this thing. It's bad enough the cleverest house can't even snag the house cup, but as the turkeys said to the farmer, we will not be humiliated for yet another year on the trot!"

Realising he was standing up, Ray sat down again.

"We may not be the fastest or the bravest, but damned if we can't think our way out of anything the other teams can throw at us! What we need gents, is ideas."

Sid immediately perked up, "We fit the brooms with wasp-guns!" His manic grin widened, "With really cross wasps in. Let's see the buggers ram through those."

Ray frowned. "Sorry Sidney, fairly sure that's about as legal as armed robbery. Spence?"

Stan stared off into nothingness.

"SPENCE!"

He jumped slightly, but recovered and turned to face his friend. "Er- right! Well, all we need is faster brooms really, Hannah's got great control, she's just stuck on that crappy old Cleansweep Six we've been bodging for years. Thing can hardly keep up with the snitch, let alone get her near enough to catch it."

Ray looked exasperated; "We've been over this before, we just have to make do with what we've got, the team budget just about gets Sid a new bat every time he breaks it on some poor sod's skull, but that's it-"

"Wait a second!" Shouted Sid, eyes ablaze "That isn't a problem at all!"

Ray sighed, "Well, I admit the skull-bashing does help us win matches, but-"

"No, no I mean about money! Meant to tell you this earlier, gather round, I have some horrible and excellent news..."

Ray and Stan both leaned in expectantly.

"Now, Stan already knows, but Raymundo, two nights ago when the ministry royally twatted Voldy and his mates, my Mum was... well, she didn't make it back. The castle was destroyed too, so I'm essentially homeless for the time being."

Ray looked aghast, "Why didn't you say so mate, hell, I would've been a bit less forward with the whole quidditch thing-"

"Oh, shut up." Ordered Sid. He was bored of grief. Mum definitely wouldn't have wanted everybody to be sad, and if he had a single sodding say in it, they certainly would not be! "Unless you've forgotten, I'm the single heir to a four-century old wizarding family, and that comes with it's perks. Not only do I have an absolutely colossal fortune at my disposal, I've also got about half a billion galleons coming in from some biblically cross Goblins that thought they'd never have to pay out on a nine-hundred year old castle insurance premium. From now on, cost is not an issue. For anything."

Ray sat there with his mouth open for a few seconds. He closed it, and then opened it again.

"So... Spence. Who makes the quickest brooms?"

Stan replied, still slightly dazed by his friend's new loadedness. "Bloke in a shed... Gundobald Boothby."

"Well then," declared Sid, clapping his hands and rubbing them together, "Next weekend, we go to his shed!"

"-With a sack of gold the size of a Troll's arse!" added Ray.

"In Germany." finished Stan.

Ray's face fell like a dishwasher from an aeroplane, "Germany! How the hell are we supposed to get to Germany?"

Sid simply grinned. "Fear not gentlemen. Ich bin ein Berliner."

_*Obviously don't really hold up magnets to your screen, it'll break. Unless it's a posh, new-fangled LCD, in which case the universe implodes. _

_What do you call a Goblin Prostitute with a runny nose?_

_Full._


End file.
